


The Water in the Blood

by Lady_Talla_Doe



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Ichabod being molested, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Spells & Enchantments, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, despite it all Ichabod is not too tramatised, everything male tries to mount Ichabod, evil witchcraft, just confused, people under a spell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Talla_Doe/pseuds/Lady_Talla_Doe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the initial scuffle of Witness-ing, and getting their acts together, Ichabod and Abbie step on some toes. Ichabod, his luck being what it is, ends up with a curse stuck to him like a burr that makes everything male want to be near him, on him, or- well, you get the picture. Everyone seems to be dead convinced they're in love with Ichabod, and he simply needs a good bit of courting to realize his own feelings are mutual; this results in even more trodden toes and more then a few tears and scares. </p><p>I've got a list of major and minor male characters and they've all got eyes for Ichabod</p><p>
  <i>TW: this will contain non-con in later chapters,  the non-malicious mind controlled kind.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't fear the touch of Death

**Author's Note:**

> Someone told me that slash fiction was all-but-requested by one of the actors, so I thought this would be a lovely excuse for me to write something a bit more different. There _will_ be non-con in this, but Ichabod isn't going to come to any extra harm. Everything is just in exceptionally strong lust with him. He's.... mixed, on his reception of it. 
> 
> EDIT: Death has a face because of REASONS, the way the burning witch had a body without bones. I need him to have one, it it essential to the plot.

* * *

 

 

 

# The Water in the Blood

* * *

## Chapter One: Don't fear the touch of Death

His hands weren’t cold, despite his expectations. When Death touched him, they were warm- Ichabod let out a soft breath, making the mistake of looking at him in his surprise. The eyes that studied him were not human, however much they had tried to be, and the look in them- cold, calculating, almost hungry- made him flinch back, cold seeping back into his limbs. He was not a praying person, but Ichabod would have gone down on both knees and sung the praises of the Lord and Heaven if someone – _anyone-_ had intervened.  But long seconds passed, marked by the lurch and stammer of his heart, and still no one came. He was alone with Death; as they all would, one day, but Ichabod never imagined it would be so... intimate.  He was caged by him, strong arms blocking both avenues of escape, and with every shaking breath Death seemed to inch closer, leaving Ichabod pressed back against the oak, hands scraping at the cracked bark as he tried to swallow his fear.

 He had reached for no axe, nor gun. Death simply stood, hovering close and stared at him, his milky blue eyes fixed on Ichabod even when he refused to meet his gaze. But Death was patient; Ichabod would hesitate, glance up, then flinch away again, returning his gaze to the ground. And Death would stare calculatingly at him, as if he were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. Like he had all the pieces yet it wasn’t fitting.

 When Death stroked a finger carefully down Ichabod’s face, his touch was warm and dry- Utterly human save for those ghastly eyes; they stared at him, fixed and unblinking, milky blue and indistinct, with no true pupil. The face they sat within was handsome, just as his true face was, but the frightening concentration he found there disturbed him. Death spread his hand, tracing the fine skin beneath Ichabod’s eye with his thumb, fingers curling into his hair, and Ichabod felt himself shaking, heard for the first time the soft noise of shifting leather, the crunch of the leaves beneath their feet; the shallow, fast tide of his own breath, mingled with each of Death’s measured exhales. Ichabod’s pulse rattled his bones.

But he still wasn’t dead.

The hand on his face slid down his neck, thumb resting over his pulse, and he froze just like a rabbit might, terror holding him still. This was it, this was the moment. Any second he’d draw his axe, and Ichabod would be dead – not so bad, since they were bound and all; maybe Death would die with him and all this would end with them-

 Death yanked Ichabod forward by his neck, and crushed their mouths together in a harsh kiss. The Englishman when limp with shock, then quickly stiff with anger, turning his face away as the Horsesman’s hand slide down his side, fingers working their way under his coat. Death was tugging at Ichabod’s shirt, pulling the tails free of his trousers and this was more frightening, because he was confused by the assault, hesitant to stop him in case it incensed the beast _more_ , but warm fingers were trying to worm their way past his waistband, plucking at the ties of his pants and panic rose amongst his fear, his heart shooting into his throat.

“God- _No_ , please-!” He shoved at him, pushed the hard chest and kicked at his shins, bringing the heel of his boot down hard on the top of Death’s own. None of his blows seemed to faze him, yet the monster drew back far enough to look down on Ichabod, regard him with the strangest look of confusion on his face. His grip loosened, hand sliding free of his captive’s pants.

Ichabod flung himself away, stumbling through the underbrush then gaining his feet. He took off through the forest, tripping and sliding in the late autumn leaves, fingers scraping against cracked bark as he grabbed for trees, bushes, anything to aid him in keeping his feet under him. Just enough for the next step, the next stumbling stride. And then the next one; and then the next. On and on, constantly repeating himself – run, stagger, fall, catch himself, run. It was funny in a sad way, because he was aware of the futility of his efforts. Death had a horse. That was really all that mattered. Death had a horse, and he would catch him.

 And then what? What would happen to Ichabod then? The Horseman couldn’t kill him. They were bound, after all. Would he imprison him, or just maim him? Disable until Ichabod was no threat? There was another option, one he wouldn't have considered until moments again; it put ice on his skin, gave his feet wings. Terror drove him and he covered the wet forest landscape quickly, ducking around trees, scrambling over rocks. Hurring to put space between them, so that maybe - if he survived- he could bury this in his mind.

 

 ~*~

It was only when he started to feel safe, when his heart had slowed and his breathing evened out did he pause, hand on the tree, and think about what had just happened. Only when he reached the edge of the woods, stumbled out into the road and saw the flashing lights of a police car parked in the distance- Abbie, Abbie and her fellows at another scene of crime, another murder- did he look back, clutching a broken sapling as his legs went out, relief almost as painful as panic had been.

A scrabble of stones on the road, and Abbie appeared to his left, looking concerned.

“Ichabod? What happened?”

 Ichabod stared at her, than looked down at his shaking palms, surprised by the sight of bright blood. He’d scraped them open at some point, leaving dirt and bits of bark in them. He shook his head, and spoke over the roaring in his ears.

 

“I don’t know.”


	2. Coffee for Two

* * *

 

 

 

Chapter two:  Coffee for Two

* * *

 

She didn’t like this silence. It crackled with tension, with words that needed to be spoken.

Back on the road, Ichabod had looked so damn lost, absolutely terrified as he stared into the woods, then mystified as he’d looked at his bloodied palms. Like he hadn’t remembered injuring himself.

His reactions since then had troubled her. He’d offered no resistance, letting himself be led to the car and tucked inside. Once in, he’d fixed his gaze out the window, arms tucked up around himself like he was cold – so Abbie had turned the heat up, really cranking it, but even as the temperature crept up to the point of making her skin prickle uncomfortably, Ichabod had remained huddled in his seat, long limbs folded awkwardly inward to make himself take up less space then he physically needed. She’d reluctantly dropped the heat, and left him alone with his thoughts.

It wasn’t like he shared much with her anyway. They were getting there, but ... She shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with her own thoughts. They’d worked things out. She’d apologized. Scowling unconsciously at the overall tone in the car, she turned into the precincts parking lot, sliding her SUV in between two Ghost cars, and turned off the engine. When Crane made no motion to get out, she frowned.

“Crane, we’re here. You need to get out now.” A little harsher then she’d intended. “... Ichabod.”

He lifted his gaze, blinking his eyes into focus, and she was relieved at the open, inquiring expression. Arching her brows, Abbie gestured at the building, then waved a hand at him; Crane started, surprise flashing through his eyes, and he ducked his head as he opened the door. Abbie ducked out herself, shutting the door distractedly and stared at him over the hood of the SUV.

“You okay?” she asked, hesitant. Obviously he wasn’t, but attempts to pry had been met with rather firm shut downs in the past. The Englishman nodded, sending his brown hair into his eyes, and with a decisive motion he flicked it back – and just like that, his demeanor changed. Whatever had been bothering him, he’d clearly decided not to let it anymore, judging by the way he straightened his shoulders, pulling his tall frame up to its full height, and took easy strides toward the building.

Ichabod paused by the door long enough for her to catch up, holding it open for her, and that was that.

 

 

~*~

Ichabod yawned so widely his jaw cracked. If he’d been back in his own time, he would have turned in by now, if only to save on lamp oil. But this was the new era, and lamps ran electricity, which meant he could stay up until his eyes itched with exhaustion and the words on the page blurred before him.

He rubbed at his eyes, yawning again, and finally set he book aside. His back was stiff, his neck sore, and his fingers ached from the cold of the records room. The bloodless white of his nails spoke to how cold he’d let himself get without paying any mind to his own health.

It was just there had to be some _reason_ for the Horseman’s behavior! Maybe it was symbolic? The kiss of Death? Ichabod had spent the last seven hours researching Death and the myths involved with him, searching for any reason that might had prompted it, but as of yet he’d found nothing. He sat back with a sharp noise of frustration, raking a hand through his hair and wincing when it caught on the scabs on his palm.  The sharp, bright pain did nothing for his mood, making him feel small and childish, frustrated with himself and the entire day.

“This is useless,” he muttered, pushing the heavy book away. It might have been more of a shove, if he was being honest.

“What is useless?” A voice asked from directly over his shoulder, and Ichabod very nearly jumped out of his skin, barely restraining the urge to leap away. A dark hand reached over his shoulder, setting a steaming white mug on the table top where the book had been, and Ichabod turned in his chair to stare at Captain Irving.

“Captain,” he managed after a moment, swallowing his thundering heart back down from his throat. “You startled me.”

The captain made a face- people of this time seemed very fond of doing that, the weird scrunching of nose and brow meant to convey sympathy or distaste but mostly made them seem unwell- and tugged the chair beside him free of its table legs, taking a seat beside Ichabod. He nodded towards the mug even as he pulled the book towards him, “You should get that in you while it’s hot. You look to be freezing in here. If you’re not careful you’ll catch your death,” He said it lightly, seeming unaware of the shudder that went through Ichabod, or the way the Englishman pulled the mug towards himself. He wrapped his bloodless fingers around the hot ceramic, uncaring of the burn it made to the palms of his hands, and leaned in to breathe its steam; coffee, thick and dark. He made a noise of appreciation, bringing the mug up carefully to sip at it as the captain read over the last paragraph Ichabod had been reading, finger to his chin, a frown firmly on his face.

“It is nothing, Captain. Just research. Fruitless research. It appears no one has the information I seek.” Crane placed the mug down carefully, shaking his head tiredly. He didn’t react when the captain placed a hand on his arm, giving it a measured squeeze.

“You look exhausted, Ichabod. You should go get some sleep. I’m sure it’ll keep til morning,” Irving offered a tight smile, and it was late enough that Ichabod could not find fault in his reasoning. His shoulders dropped, just a fraction, as the exhaustion truly set in, and Ichabod pushed back his chair, lifting his jacket from the back as he stood. He nodded once to the captain, stepping back from the table- leaving the steaming mug, although he loathed to. But he was tired, and it would only keep him up.

“You are right, Captain Irving. It can wait until morning-”

“Frank.” Captain Irving interrupted.

Ichabod stopped, surprised, and tilted his head in a silent show of polite confusion. The captain smiled,

“Call me Frank. All this Captain Irving is very strange from you. You make it sound so much more formal then it is. Just call me Frank.” He stood as he spoke, scooping the mug off the table, and closed the book with his free hand. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

Ichabod frowned, but nodded.

“Very well, Frank. You may call me Ichabod if you’d like. I rather miss hearing it.”

A soft chuckle. “No icky?”

“No Icky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be updating this every week after the episode. Each chapter will hopefully be longer then the last, as I get a hang of writing the characters. Please don't hesitate to give me feedback if you think there's something that I can do to improve the story.


	3. Bad Dreams (may be a result of poor sleeping habits)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod has nightmares because of his poor choices of sleeping spots, and the good Captain begins a courtship via coffee. Abbie begins to suspect something's up because Morales and Jones are acting like creepers instead of cops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH I'm sorry I missed that long hiatus between episodes. I was sick with the zombie-apocalypse cold that's plaguing my city right now. Then the rest of my family caught it from me and we just passed it around for three and a half weeks.  
> On the upside, this story is now a episode six divergence fiction (sort of) in that I like Abbie and Ichabod's relationship as it is THIS VERY SECOND and if anything changes to screw it up I won't be acknowledging it. Main pairings from this point forward will be Headless Horseman/Ichabod (non-con) and Captain Irving/ Ichabod (dubious-spelled for now) along with other minor people. AAAND of course brOTP ichabbie because I seriously love them so much it hurts parts of me on the inside that I don't have a dude friend like Ichabod. So yes now you're prepared ONWARD GO READ *hand flapping*

* * *

* * *

 

Ichabod was choking on the cold coming off Death’s body, choking on it, suffocating on the winter smell of him, the grave scent of his skin. It seemed to drifted down from Death’s body, until it was all he could smell, all he could breath and he was being smothered by it, choked by the cloying scent of crave and decay but not rot. Just dirt, and cold. Ichabod thrashed, tried to throw him off, tried to get a clean lungful, but couldn’t . He was pinned, trapped beneath the hard body of his enemy, held firm to the wintery ground by Death’s weight and he was being crushed beneath the weight of him, and yet despite the panic and confusion the fogged his brain, all Ichabod could think about was the sticks tangled in his hair, poking his scalp, and the small rocks digging into his spine. The way they just kept digging, and digging, and the surreal sharpness of them, the odd angle and force and he shut his eyes tight, breathed hard thought his nose, and locked his hands in the thick wool of the Horseman’s jacket, pushing him away. He went, his clutching hands and burning cold went with him.

And for a moment Ichabod could breath and his head was filled with the smell of coffee and leather, and the warm scent of the precinct, and then he was sitting up with a curse. The sounds of the precinct slowly filtered in, scratching at his ears and slowly leaching the tension out of him. His make-shift bed creaked beneath him as he shifted, the thing complaining at his sudden movements.  It was warm and comfortable on the couch, its leather warm from his body heat, tan and cracked, but soft from use. Ichabod flexed his fingers against it, blinking slowly at floor as he slowly gained his bearings. He remembered leaving the records room last night with Captain Irving, but he’d been exhausted. And the cabin was so far...

Shaking the sleep from his eyes, he leaned to pick his coat up from where it had slipped from over his legs to the floor, landing beside his boots. The office was warm, but now that he was awake and moving the air seemed cooler; he’d welcome the extra layer. Or perhaps it was the confusion, the need to have another layer between him and the world. As he straightened, a flash of yellow caught the corner of his eye.

The strange sign from his first night.

_Ah._

_Captain Irving’s office_.

How he’d come to be sleeping on the man’s furniture was a still a mystery, but it was a comfort to know he was, indeed, somewhere familiar. Rolling his shoulders to shake the residual tension from them, Ichabod bent to pull on his boots, humming something tuneless under his breath. Maybe he’d hunt down some coffee – and finally try those donut holes Abbie kept teasing him about. It was silly, since it had only been the once, and he’d had a valid point, but he stood by it _– it was too much tax for baked goods_. She could laugh as much as she’d like, if she wanted to waste her hard earned money squandering so much of it on government, then he hoped they tasted good.

So, donut holes were off the menu again, but he’d live without them. Tugging on his jacket, Ichabod stepped out into the organised chaos of the Sleepy Hollow police precinct, taking in the wave of sound like it was sustenance.

“Ah, Crane. There you are. I was wondering when I’d get my office back.”

Ichabod turned, startled, just in time to have a hot cardboard cup pressed into his hands by the Captain. When it seemed like he wouldn’t take it, Captain Irving closed Ichabod’s hands around the brown sleeve himself, holding his fingers shut. The British man looked at the coffee, then the Captain, and tightened his grip, nodded once in thanks.

“Ah, yes, Captain. Thank you, for you office. And the ...?” he ventured a tentative questioning look.

“Coffee.” A squeeze, and the captain released his hand.

“-Coffee. I hope I wasn’t imposing. I don’t remember falling sleep.” Coffee was nice. Not that he had anything against tea- it was clique for a reason; he was rather fond to it. But the ready availability of coffee in the modern era made coffee into something of an allure Ichabod had yet to grow sick of. Captain Irving smiled.

“It was late. Normally, I would have offered you the bunk down by the squad cars, but a junior officer was already making use of it. You were already asleep in a chair by reception by the time I’d returned, so I just woke you up enough to shuffle you somewhere less uncomfortable. It’s not a trouble.” The chaos of the bullpen seemed to lay falsehood to his words, but wisely, Ichabod chose instead to sip from his coffee instead of comment. It burnt his mouth – they made it so much hotter these days- but it tasted rich, full and dark and not burnt or watery, or grainy or any other nasty combination as it might have in his day. He nodded his thanks, turning quickly before the Captain could draw him back into conversation.

Abbie had to be around somewhere. The clock on the wall read eleven, and her shift started at nine- if she were here, she’d been in the records room, so that was where he’d start.  Crane wove his way through the fray, trying to keep from stepping on toes or getting in anyone’s way. Part of him had the desire to find an out of the way nook, and observe for the day, simply watch the ebb and tide of the force as it went about its work and absorb the patterns of it and let the whole ... _wholeness_ of it sink in. He hadn’t had any time yet to simply sit down any be _still_. He missed that. The sitting, waiting. Or resting. Just existing for quiet moments because you could. Everything had been so chaotic since his awakening, they’d all been wrapped up in this great big nasty mess with the horseman and everything that came with him that none of them had been given a chance to pause, to breath. He hadn’t even had a chance to absorb what had happened- Abbie certainly hadn’t had a chance to grieve. They’d just jumped right into the adventure, the hacking and slashing and gunshots and witnessing. Stepping on powerful toes and upsetting the balance and righting it. All in a day’s work for them.

But when did they get to stop moving and be still?

He hadn’t realised he’d paused until a hard form bumped into him. Cradling the hot beverage close, Crane stepped hastily to the side, apologizing. Jones steadied him with a grin too close to a leer, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and leaned in close – too close, Ichabod had to back up to keep their distance- to speak over the noise.

“Sorry Professor Crane, didn’t see you there. Didn’t spill, did you?” Despite the almost-leer smile, Devon Jones had proven to be a genuinely nice man. Ichabod brushed off the personal space issues as a consequence of their times, and glanced at the cup, shaking his head. Never the less, he shifted hands- away from the rest of the room, and Mr. Jones, where the coffee would be safer.

“No, not a drop. I’m not fond of scalding liquid, Mr. Jones. You’ll find my reflexes adequate even when surprised as to keep from being burned. If you’ll excuse me, I’m looking for Miss Mills,” His firm, polite nod should have been the end of it.

Jones circled to his other side, looking liked a kicked dog. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you or your reflexes, I was just trying to be polite. You’re very polite, Professor Crane, it’s pretty intimidating for some of the boys, you know. They’re scared to talk to you. I didn’t want you thinking I was scared or anything.”  He ended with that awkward facial squint Ichabod was learning to hate. The sympathy I’m-sorry-really-hope-you-understand squint. It wasn’t flattering.

Ichabod paused, then reconsidered, and continued on past Morales’ desk. The shorter man whistled sharply, grinning.

“ _Daaamn_ Professor, you’re looking like a hot mess. Where’d you spend the night?”

“Now- What- That is just alarming. _What_ is wrong with you?” Ichabod stammered, face burning. What was going _on_ today? Where on earth was Abbie? Was this a test? Or a prank? Had someone decided to prank him while Miss Mills was away. Crane’s impression of a blushing trout only seemed to encourage Morales, who came around his desk to look the taller man up and down.

There was a bit too much teeth in his resulting smile for Ichabod to be entirely comfortable.

“You look like hell. More so then usual. And I saw you slink out of the Captain’s office all tousle-haired. Something you want to tell us, Prof?” Praise-be, he had the decency to drop his voice so it didn’t carry past the first row of desks around them, but they were getting plenty of attention anyway. Ichabod could feel the flush creep down his neck.

“I know what you’re implying, and it was not like that. I fell asleep. I was here very late last night, and I’d thank you not to make such distorted accusations about your Captain.” His position wasn’t very strong. He’d seen plenty of men caught in his position do the same thing while in camp; it was a matter of public opinion, not a matter of fact. Rather than argue the point further, he returned his focus to Jones, who seemed surprised by the entire thing.

“Where is Miss Mills?”

“I’m here. What, something catch fire? What’s all the fuss?” Abbie took one look at Ichabod’s flushed, tense face, then Morales’ grinning one, and her mouth flattened into a displeased line. She slapped the rolled line of her news paper down on the short detective’s hand, “Leave Crane alone Morales, I will not tell you again. This pissing contest you want to get started is ending today or I will take this to the reviews board.” She brought a finger to his face, leaning in. “I’m not warning you, I’m telling you. Leave Crane out of it.”

Morales didn’t actually give Abbie any verbal confirmation to leaving-Crane-out-of-it, but when she took Ichabod’s elbow and towed him through the crowd towards the records room, the assembled cops parted like the red sea.

* * *

* * *

 

The thick stack of papers sent up a ploum of dust as it hit the counter top.

“What the hell was that?” Abbie whispered, pointing back at the bullpen. Ichabod glared, panning the files out aggressively across the table.

“I don’t know,” he admit a moment later.

“You don’t know. You _don’t know?”_

They exchanged a narrow eyed looked over the table. Eventually, Abbie threw her hands down, sighing. “You know what? Fine. Fine. You don’t know. I don’t know. No one knows what on earth that was, or – where did you get that coffee?”

Ichabod scooped the cooling cup defensively closer. “Captain Irving gave it to me.”

Up went the eyebrows. “Captain Irving... brought you coffee?”

“Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be mean, Abbie, take a file. The coffee is the only good thing to happen this morning. I’m not questioning it, and you aren’t either.”

He tossed a filed across the table at her. Throwing up her hands, she rolled her eyes. “Fine. But it’s going to be poison, or spelled, or a bribe, or cost you something because the captain doesn’t get coffee for anyone _ever_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s done it twice now. Now stop being so suspicious and read.”


	4. Bad Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devon Jones puts down a good, old fashioned Bad Touch on Ichabod, and things start to seem Not So Right to Abby.  
> ( Enter Non-Con tag! )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am honestly very sorry for the delay. I should throw myself at all of your feet and beg for forgiveness - in exchange, this chapter is mostly Ichabod being molested. On a small side note, Devon Jones lives because I don't have it in my heart to kill off good looking blond men. This whole thing is non-con. This whooole chapter. Yup. That's how much I love you all.

* * *

* * *

 

The strangeness didn’t _really_ start until a few days later, when Devon Jones cornered Ichabod in one of the empty file rooms. He didn’t think much of it for the first few minutes- the detective stayed quiet, lingering in the doorframe as Ichabod pulled open draws and tugged out files.

Footsteps, thick treads squeaking on the hard floor, and all the hair stood up on the back of Ichabod’s neck at once, prickling cold washing down his back. He spun, cocking his head.

“Detective.”

The man nodded in acknowledgment, turning his back on Ichabod, and opened a file case of his own, spreading the paper across table at the center of the room. Noise filtered in from the hallway, and after a few long moments of silence, Ichabod returned cautiously to his study, putting the Detective’s strange behavior to the back of his mind.

He really should have known better. He had, in all honesty, been alarmingly, _shockingly_ stupid; the though barely had time to cross his mind as Detective Jones’ hand settled over his stomach, palm warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. Ichabod stiffened, indignant protest on his lips- silenced, briefly, by the startling touch of tongue to the shell of his ear.

Really, what _had_ gotten into the station? Jones’ breath was hot, uncomfortably intimate against the back of his neck, and his other hand had settled on Ichabod’s forearm, holding it very loosely. His breath stuttered, fear fluttering softy. This had the potential to go very wrong for him, if he handled it wrong. Ichabod was struck with the irrational urge to praise any god listening that he hadn’t snapped at Jones right off the bat.

But the Detective was grinding his hips slowly into – _oh, oh surely that wasn’t? –_

“Good god man, what are you doing?” He whispered, disbelief stealing the heat from his voice.

The air seemed thin. This was not happening, not again; the Englishman jerked forward, bringing his body away from the hard press of the other man’s excitement, leaning his body away from Jones, over the table, and resisted the urge to swear and call out. It wouldn’t due for witnesses. Jones, for his part, simply followed Ichabod, pressing up tight against him, and continued to grind his hard cock into the man’s clothed ass. One of his large hands pawed at Ichabod’s front, sliding down his belly, trying to tug Ichabod’s shirt free from his pants, and the Englishman snatched it away- or tried to. He wound up simply clutching at his wrist, holding the seeking fingers away from his most intimate parts, teeth grit with effort as his arm strained.

Jones held Ichabod’s other arm to the table top.

Despite his increased panic, Ichabod kept quiet, only harsh rasping breaths spilling past his lips. But he was losing- he could feel it, as could Detective Jones. The attack was so out of character, he couldn’t rationalize the behavior with the man he’d come to know, but it was hard to argue the fact it was happening with him humping at his rear like a dog.

“Detective, if you would just release me- _please_ if you could just-" But his voice fell on deaf ears. With a growl, Jones flattened Ichabod to the table, startling a grunt out of the thinner man. His legs were shoved apart by a hard thigh, one that pressed right up between his legs and Ichabod would have jumped if he’d been able. That was just indecent, and when Jones began to rub, slow and hard, he had to bite his tongue and squeeze his eyes shut.

 Everything about it was wrong and alarming. From the way his hard body crushed Ichabod down into the table, pressing him tight enough that they had to breath in together, or Ichabod wound up panting like a wounded creature, chest rising and falling fast and shallow as a shallow’s wing beat. The clawing hand on his abdomen was in his pants, fingers curled tight around his hard flesh, and Ichabod _did_ sob, when Jones thumbed the slit, squirming against his captor’s body. The blond detective’s touch was hard and fast, nothing coy or playful – he stroked straight up and down, twisting his hand at the last minute to may Ichabod cry out into the table top. The pattern went on forever, never deviating- Jones was licking and sucking at Ichabod’s neck as he worked his hand in the Englishman’s pants, whispering things against his damn skin;

“ _So beautiful, just wanted to hear you, never meant to touch, you can hate me ‘s okay-"_ the list never stopped. It was the most inerotic thing Ichabod had ever heard, and tinged the entire encounter with the colour of fear, for it was evident to him – from his position of first hand observer- that Jones wasn’t controlling his own actions.

 Of course none of that mattered when the Detective managed to tug his trousers down enough to expose his bare flank.

Ichabod had been wrong before. _This was fear_.

 But Jones didn’t violate him as he’d expected; rather the man pulled back long enough to spit onto his own hand, and tug his cock free of his jeans, slicking it with his spit covered hand. The hand returned to Ichabod’s dick right after, and with slick the sensation went from too rough and too hard, to just enough- warmth rolled through him in a hard rush, a dark flush creeping up his throat as Jones bent him back over the table. Again, the detective didn’t pierce him as he expected. He moved his thigh from between Ichabod’s, and forced the Englishman to close his legs, then thrust into the tight space he created, fucking into his thighs.

 _“Don’ wanna hurt you,”_ The detective confessed against his neck, as his cock nestled up against Ichabod’s sack, stringing him out with a sharp curse. Again, Jones held him down, using his own weight to keep Ichabod pinned. The wet sound of flesh on flesh and the scent of sweat and sex filled the air of the small room, sharp and pungent. Ichabod felt like he was shaking apart at his very bones, shirt pushed up his ribs by their frantic motions, pants slowly slipping down his legs, exposed and vulnerable to anyone who might walk in.

 The hand stripping his cock sped up, and with a start Ichabod tensed, coming hard; only Jones’ hand over his mouth kept the harsh cry inside. After several long moments he collapsed like a cut-string doll, panting and spent, in the pool of his own cum. The detective grunted, curling over his back and thrust faster into Ichabod’s limp legs, making him shiver, before coming with a soft noise.

 His cum coated the insides of his legs, the underside of Ichabod’s cock, and dripped down to slide, hot, over his most intimate areas. Again, the faint trill of fear, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. After a long, dull moment, Detective Jones pulled back, stumbling into the cabinets opposite.

 “Professor… Oh my god…”

 He didn’t need to turn to imagine the look of horror on the man’s face. That certainly seemed in character with the Devon Jones Ichabod was familiar with.

 “I… I am alright, detective. Just… just leave.” Wearily, Ichabod tugged up his trousers, wincing at the new bruises and the disgusting sensation of cooling cum against his skin. Something was not right here, something was not right with the officers, and this unfortunate… encounter… only confirmed it. He’d started to suspect it with the Horseman, but in all honesty Ichabod would never have called anything like this.

 A knock on the door frame.

Startled, he looked over to see Abby’s tight smile.

“I’m not judging, but it smells like sex and the workplace isn’t where you do that.”

 He tried his best to look amused and disgusted by the suggestion, but might have fallen a bit flat.

“I am aware of that. Aside from that, the unfortunate… aroma… of the room was here before I arrived. What brings you down here? Not that it isn’t a delight.”

 She held up a faintly steaming cup. “Coffee. From the captain. Which is strange, and freaky, and you’re going to have to talk me through that one.”

Ichabod arched his brows, sighing, and left it at that, carefully covering the evidence of his encounter with Detective Jones. “I’m afraid I won’t be of much assistance. I do not quite understand it myself.”

She smirked, nodding her head to the doorframe. “Come on, Crane. You can’t work all day.”

It might be that Abby was his shining bit of normality in all of this. There would never be enough gratitude in a human life to say thanks for that small blessing.


End file.
